


Dunia (the Lekku Remix)

by avocadomoon



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/F, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 08:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20672432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avocadomoon/pseuds/avocadomoon
Summary: Lekku is a spy language, used only when one wanted to be discreet. Nobody outside Ryloth can speak it - a Twi'lek can say any number of things openly, and in a crowd of thousands, nobody at all would know.





	Dunia (the Lekku Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yujacheong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujacheong/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dunia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20055094) by [yujacheong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujacheong/pseuds/yujacheong). 

On Alderaan, the royalty wear braids. A woman can convey any number of things by a particular twist, a certain style, a specific adornment. Dunia once watched a holocast of an Alderaanian king's coronation, when she was very young, and she remembers being fascinated by the Queen's intricate braids, which her _silais_ told her meant she was unhappy in her marriage. 

How could they possibly tell? How could anyone tell such a thing from just looking at another being? Xiann had clicked her cheeks, patted Dunia's head, and explained, _everything means something. Look at how many hairs they have - they have to do something with it. You see the way she's woven it through her crown? She's telling us she feels trapped. The silver paint she's smeared on the ends? Means royal blood. Her own._

Xiann had been rather cynical, especially about some of the more well-off Mid Rim planets like Alderaan, who were always shouting nonsense in the Senate, taking up time and space that would be better used by someone else, someone with real problems. Dunia took her words with a grain of salt, until she went out into the galaxy on her own and saw for herself how right she'd been about its brutality. 

In a culture of formality, where the slightest variation of appearance can be used to convey any number of different messages, why would a Queen dare to be so bold? This is no different from those who speak lekku, but that is a spy language, used only when one wanted to be discreet. Nobody outside Ryloth can speak it - a Twi'lek can say any number of things openly, and in a crowd of thousands, nobody at all would know. But on the holo? In front of the entire galaxy?

_Perhaps she is afraid,_ Xiann said. _Perhaps she thinks her boldness will protect her._

That Queen was later deposed, and died in prison. She was quite young, and they called her a fascist. Dunia's heard that word used before, to mean any number of other things. She thinks that humans probably have lots of different languages, whether secretly or not, and at the end of the day, really it's anyone's guess. 

Shmi's belly grows round with her child, bulging past her belts and her tunics until Gardulla is forced to acknowledge reality and pay for another outfit. Their deception was successful; it is too late to terminate the fetus now. Shmi is well past the stage where it would be legal. 

"It's a boy," Shmi says, late at night when the lights have been extinguished. Some days, they are lucky: Gardulla pays for the lamps to burn only until the work has been finished, and sometimes the cleaners are lazy. Dunia longs for those nights, as Shmi always looks most beautiful in the evenings, once the day's stresses have melted away beneath the blankets of their bunk. 

"You think so?"

"I know so," Shmi says. The further she has grown into her pregnancy, the stranger she has become with her eerie, fortune-telling way of speaking, which has only caused Dunia to like her even more. 

"Just what we need, a man in our lives," Dunia says. "Will he be a human?"

"I certainly hope so," Shmi says, sounding amused. 

"Just checking. This could be a disguise," Dunia teases, poking suspiciously at Shmi's very human, very sunburned cheek. "A clever ruse. I think you are the type."

"The type who's clever, or the type to fool people?"

Dunia gives a lazy shrug. "Both." She lays the side of her head against the rounded curve of Shmi's stomach, so she can hear the baby. Inside, the infant is already moving: kicking its legs, breathing raspy little breaths, its heart pumping blood so loudly Dunia can sometimes hear it when they're sleeping. "What will you name it?"

"Him," Shmi corrects gently. 

"Him," Dunia repeats, carefully. 

"I'm not sure yet. I think I will know when I meet him," Shmi says. She reaches up and strokes one of Dunia's _lekku,_ making her shiver. "Would you stay with us? You could teach him how to sing."

"That would be nice," Dunia says softly. If only such a thing were possible. If only Dunia were less beautiful, or Shmi less useful, then perhaps they would be allowed to stay together. 

"Or perhaps he'll be a poet," Shmi says wonderingly. "Or a painter. He can sell his drawings at the market - become famous. Buy a ticket straight to Coruscant."

"I can hear it!" Dunia says eagerly. "His artist's soul." She wrinkles her nose. "He sounds like an impressionist."

Shmi laughs, which is always a delight to hear. "It will be so nice," she says. She sighs, her voice drifting off into sleep. Dunia lifts her head gently from her stomach, and smooths down the blanket: she needs the warmth, at night when it gets so cold down here in the dungeons, but she will need her arms free for when the nightmares come. "Whatever he'll be. I know he'll be mine. That's enough, isn't it?"

These things which they do not say: that Dunia will be sold soon, that Shmi's son will be too, one day. That her wounds from the whipping are close to infection, torn open as they are each night by Gardulla's favored guests. Dunia would do it all again, in a heartbeat, if she had to: it was an easy risk to take. Shmi needed help - extra food, tricks and advice to conceal her condition, comfort in the nights when the guards lingered too close, leaned up against their door and watched with beady eyes as they undressed. Shmi is strong, but Dunia is stronger. Such is the way with humans: their will is unbelievable, but their bodies are so, so breakable. 

_Never fall in love with one of those cold-bloods,_ had been Xiann's last bit of advice. Dunia remembers it well, if only because it was the bleakest thing she'd ever heard. She never even considered listening to it. 

"Yes," Dunia says, smoothing a stray lock of hair away from Shmi's eyes. "He will be yours, Shmi. He will always be yours."

A lie can be a truth, but also a wish, if you say it the right way. Dunia knows this language well. "Love you," Shmi says, reaching up to brush her knuckles against Dunia's wrist. 

"Yes," Dunia says. "I hear you."


End file.
